Still, I need a notebook, and this is the one I have.
Today was the first day of sixth grade at Maple Ridge School, and Mrs. Green gave us an assignment called ONE GOAL FOR THE YEAR. Most people wrote normal things.
Mia wrote, “Improve my public speaking.”
Omar wrote, “Learn three card tricks that do not end with someone calling for help.”
Ben wrote, “Eat a vegetable without being surprised by it.”
Mrs. Green read his goal twice.
I left my paper blank because my real goal felt too big to fit in the little box.
Here it is:
Before this school year ends, I want to do something at Maple Ridge that people will still talk about next year.
Last year, the yearbook listed me as “Samuel Crater.” In the class photo, I was standing behind a tall kid named Marcus, so the only visible part of me was one ear.
One ear is not the kind of legacy a person hopes for.
It was not only the yearbook. Teachers remembered Mia’s perfect folders, Omar’s tricks, and Ben’s ability to turn lunch into an incident report. When people described me, they usually paused first. I wanted to be the kind of person whose name arrived before the pause.
That is not the same as wanting to be famous. Famous people cannot buy cereal without appearing in a photograph. I only wanted proof that I had occupied more space in the school than one ear behind Marcus.
At lunch, I told Ben about my goal.
“You could grow another ear,” he said. “Then at least the yearbook would show fifty percent of you.”
I told him ears were not the point.
So we made a list titled WAYS TO BECOME UNFORGETTABLE:
1. Win a trophy.
2. Invent something useful.
3. Lead an important project.
4. Get my name in the school newspaper.
5. Save someone from mild danger.
Ben added number six: Eat the cafeteria’s gray soup and live.
I crossed that one out. Becoming unforgettable is no use if you are not around to enjoy it.
After lunch, Mrs. Green asked us to share our goals. When it was my turn, I decided to say something sensible.
“I want to contribute meaningfully to the school community,” I said.
The sentence sounded excellent in my head.
Out loud, I accidentally said, “I want to confuse the school community.”
Omar clapped. Ben nodded like this was exactly the goal we had discussed.
Mrs. Green waited.
“Contribute,” I corrected. “I meant contribute.”
“A worthwhile goal,” she said, but she was smiling.
On the walk home, I opened the notebook and wrote THE VERY GOOD PLAN at the top of the first page.
Then Pickles pulled the leash, I tripped over a recycling bin, and my pen slashed a black line through GOOD.
Now it says THE VERY BAD PLAN.
Honestly, THE VERY BAD PLAN might be more accurate.
NOTE TO FUTURE ME #1: If your plan begins with a spelling mistake and ends in a recycling bin, keep the notebook. You may need evidence.
End of Chapter 1. The trouble has only just started.
